by D. C. Brod
I watched Blood resting his forehead against Mick’s chest as Mick rubbed the animal’s cheek. Blood closed his eyes and blew air out his nostrils.
From the barn, we went up to the suite Bull had rented where forty or fifty people navigated among the hors d’oeuvres table, the bar and our very own betting window. When we arrived, last bets were being called for the first race.
Watching the races from an air-conditioned suite seemed a little artificial, but we did have a great view, and it was probably the closest I’d come to feeling like royalty.
Bull and Gwen arrived just after the fourth race. He wore the suit of a man who expected to make an appearance in the winner’s circle, and Gwen had on a snug little number that matched her husband’s pale blue shirt and she wore a drop necklace consisting of a mix of diamonds and some pale blue gems. I didn’t notice anyone mentioning the goat to Bull. Apparently having his money returned intact had done little to repair his pride. Bull Severn’s horse needed a goat nanny, and that fact did nothing for Bull’s image.
On the news last night I’d enjoyed watching Bull being led through a phalanx of reporters asking him about his goat that was held for ransom. Questions like: “Mr. Severn, did you really pay a half million for the goat’s release?” and “What kind of relationship have the horse and goat got?” Bull had surged through the crowd, shoulders first and didn’t respond to any of these questions. But his face, red and tight, had said it all.
Now, being in the same room with the man I’d been extorting on the phone yesterday made me nervous. Suddenly the voice changer was a flimsy mask. But I detected nothing in his dark, rather harsh eyes that made me think he was onto me.
Mick said to Bull, “How’re you holding up?”
Bull glanced around before answering, his voice low. “I’ve got the cops working 24/7. The dead guy wasn’t in on this alone. The fucker who did this is going to pay. I’m going to personally disembowel him.”
Mick nodded, and I tried to imagine Hedges telling his men that their careers depended on apprehending the dreaded goatnapper. It would have been funny, except that Bull was so deadly earnest. I took a sip of beer and then looked up to find Bull giving me an intense stare.
“How’re you doing?” he finally asked.
I forced myself to swallow. “Okay.” Then I asked about the man who’d been shot.
“He’ll be home in a few days.”
“That’s good to hear.” Another thing I’d never considered—collateral damage.
“How’s that book coming?” he asked.
I forced myself to maintain eye contact. “Still doing some research. Should be starting it soon.”
He nodded his approval. “Like to read it when you’re done.”
Mick was giving me an amused look.
“I’ll be sure to send you a copy,” I said, hoping this didn’t mean I’d have to write the damned thing.
Gwen came up to us then, threading her arm through her husband’s. “Mick, I’m glad you could come.” Then she turned to me, hesitated, assumed a painfully awkward expression and said, “I’m sorry, what was your name?”
Mick answered. “It’s Robyn.”
“Of course.” She looked me up and down. “Cute dress, Robyn.”
I looked her up and down, smiled, and said, “Thank you.” Then I turned to Mick, touched his arm and said, “Come help me pick a horse for the fifth race.”
As we walked to the betting window, I pulled a five dollar bill out of my purse. “I’m feeling lucky today.”
As I placed a bet, I glanced over my shoulder and saw Gwen still watching us. I tucked my hand around Mick’s arm and gave Gwen a bright smile, which she didn’t return.
Moving on, I tried to figure out what was about to happen. Mick wasn’t giving me any clues, although he was being attentive, and when the bet I’d placed, based on his suggestion, paid off nicely, I decided that, no matter what happened, I was glad I’d come out.
While waiting for the fifth race to start, I noticed my old friend Rudy, drink in hand, standing at one of the windows looking out toward the track. He certainly got around.
After I collected my winnings, Mick asked me if I’d thought about a buyer for the stamp.
“Not yet. Haven’t had the time to do much thinking.” I bit the corner off a wedge of cheddar. “Why? Are you interested?”
“No. But I know a guy who is.”
“You do know people, don’t you?”
He just smiled.
The Million was the tenth race, and by the time it came around, you could feel the tension thrumming in the room.
Horse races don’t last long, but the festivities preceding the Million were about as lavish and lengthy as Super Bowl half time. The Plymouth queen was introduced, a tenor sang the Illinois state song, “Illinois,” and a local woman belted the race’s theme song, which was, for some reason, “Wind Beneath My Wings.”
While introducing each horse during the post parade, the announcer dwelt on Bull’s Blood a bit longer than the others, mentioning Sassy and the commotion surrounding the horse during the past forty-eight hours. Blood was tied for favorite. He and Merle’s Magic would be going off at five to one, which was better than Mick had guessed, given Blood’s recent history.
As they were loading the horses into the starting gate, I said to Mick, keeping my voice low, “Do you want him to win or not?”
“What do you think?” he said with a smile.
I honestly didn’t know.
Blood broke fifth from the gate and by the first turn his jockey had gotten him out of a small knot of horses and running clear on the rail. I glanced over at Bull and Gwen. Bull’s face showed no emotion, just hard concentration, while Gwen was jumping up and down on her little spiked heels. Bull held a drink glass between his hands in a throttle-grip.
Blood edged into the lead along the backstretch, and my fist kept time with the hoofbeats I was hearing in my head.
But then a horse named Sight Unseen edged in front of him, and it was clearly a battle between the two horses. Almost everyone in the suite was crying, “Blood!”
In the end, it was a matter of a nose. Not even three inches. Amazing how such a small measure would plummet a room into silence. I could feel the energy drain.
When I finally looked over at Bull, he was sitting, barely holding on to his glass by the rim. Next to him, Gwen sat with her legs crossed, and a truly pissed off expression added a few years to her features.
Someone said something about “a good race” and was silenced by the look Bull shot at him. It had been a good race. The kind a crowd loves. Close, with the headliner nearly winning and a come-from-nowhere horse stealing the race. I couldn’t help but wonder if Blood might have had just a little more—that was all he’d have needed—if he hadn’t been without Sassy for a day.
Finally, Bull stood and walked over to the bar and set his drink on the counter. “The same,” he said, pushing it toward the bartender. The party would go on. And what a happy time we’d all have.
As people began to talk and move about again, I sort of slumped against Mick. “This sucks,” I said, truly bummed.
“Not really.”
“Oh, yeah?” I turned to him and saw that smile again.
“Bull dumps his losers. People, property, horses. It’s all the same to him.”
“And you’re thinking...”
He shrugged. “Wouldn’t be the first time I bought one of his discards.”
“Goat too?”
He winked. “Goat too.”
I was about to pursue that when I noticed three men entering the suite. They stood out from the crowd because of their dress. They wore suits, but not the race-day casual kind. These were dark suits with white shirts. One of them approached Bull at the bar while the other two stood by the door, hands folded.
“William Severn?”
Bull looked at him, his eyes at a creepy half mast. “Who’s asking?”
The man, a good four inches s
horter than Bull with receding red hair and freckles, pulled an ID from his pocket and proceeded to introduce himself as an officer with the Fowler police department, finishing the sentence with, “I have a warrant for your arrest.”
Bull seared him with a look and said, “For what?”
“Insurance fraud, for starters,” the officer said, and began to read him his rights as he produced a pair of handcuffs.
Something flashed across Bull’s face—alarm—but then his expression turned dark like a storm about explode. But, before he could unleash himself, a heavy-set man with thin blond hair had cut his way through the crowd. This man said to the cop, “I’m Richard Black-stone, Mr. Severn’s attorney.”
The cop just nodded.
“Let me see that warrant.”
The cop produced it from his pocket and handed it to Blackstone.
Bull had apparently recovered his sense of humor, because he was almost smiling down on his arresting officer as he said to his attorney, “Make sure you get this guy’s name, Rich. I don’t—”
Blackstone silenced Bull with a look and handed the warrant back to the officer. “I’m going to advise you not to say anything right now, Bull.”
Bull’s anger and indignation deserted him, and I could almost see him sag under the loss. As the cuffs were clicking shut on him, he started looking around the room. For a moment I thought he was looking for me. Guilt fades slowly. But then his gaze landed on Gwen, who was still sitting on a settee with the look of one recovering from a gut punch. “Are you coming?”
Before she could answer or change her expression, the two men standing at the door led him out of the room and the arresting officer followed. Bull’s ravings faded, then stopped as the elevator door closed.
Mick and I exchanged a look, but his expression remained neutral as, I hoped, mine did.
No one spoke for several moments, and then a man came up to Gwen and whispered something to her. She started, as though just awakened, then stood and let him lead her from the suite. She stumbled once, and I almost felt sorry for her. Almost.
After she left, there was a bit more silence and then a guy who’d been leaning against the bar said to the bartender, “You still open?”
“Sure,” came the answer with a shrug.
It was like someone flicked a switch. People started talking, laughing, filling their drinks and looking for more shrimp at the appetizer table.
Mick and I left, neither of us speaking as we stood waiting for the elevator.
Then the doors opened, and I stepped in. Mick had started to follow me when he stopped and held the door.
Rudy stepped into the lift, and they were both grinning. The door shut and I said, “Okay, guys, what just happened?”
Mick nodded toward Rudy. “Rudy’s an insurance investigator. Specializes in gems and jewelry.”
Something clicked, but I didn’t have enough yet. “And?”
Rudy turned to me. “A year ago, Bull’s home was robbed and his safe broken into. Some valuable jewelry was stolen. He filed a claim and his insurance company settled.”
The elevator bumped to a stop and the three of us got out and began moving through the crowds. Rudy looked at me with his pale eyes and said, “I never believed him.”
“This still isn’t coming together for me.” I turned to Mick. “I don’t have all the pieces.”
Mick conceded that with a nod. “I’m Bull’s accountant. I know how much money—how much cash—he’s got. And I knew if he had to come up with a half million on short notice, he’d never be able to do it. He’d have to sell one of those ‘stolen’ pieces.”
I stopped. Mick and Rudy waited as it sank in and washed over me. “And how did you know he sold it?”
Rudy smiled again, “I know a few people in the gem acquisition business.”
I looked at Mick. “He was set up.”
When he nodded, I said, “But how did you know for certain that he’d do this?”
“We really didn’t. But it was a good bet. And then, even if it didn’t pan out, we’d still have the money.”
“Good thing it panned out, huh?”
“Indeed,” Rudy said.
He folded the racing form and slipped it into his jacket pocket. “Well, I’d best be going. There are one or two parties I’ll need to attend.” He gave me a nod and slight bow. “It’s been a pleasure, Robyn.”
After Rudy left, Mick circled my waist with his arm and we kept walking.
“So this wasn’t about that horse that had to be put down,” I said, thinking it through.
“Yeah, it was. I just needed a way to take Bull down.” Then he shrugged. “Look at it this way, Robyn. Maybe he’s not going away for what he did to that horse or to your mother, but he’s going away. Doesn’t that feel good?”
“Yes,” I said after a moment. “It really does.”
We walked a little farther, and then I looked down at him and said, “Why didn’t you tell me any of this?”
“Need to know.”
“Yeah, well, here’s something you need to know.” I tucked my arm through his. “You don’t know anything about secrets.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“You don’t know my mother.”
THE END
D.C. (Deb) Brod has written fiction most of her life, but didn’t think she had a novel in her until after she graduated from Northern Illinois University with an M.A. in journalism. It was then that she decided if she could spend 120 pages discussing postal oppression of the radical press, she could write a novel. She was right. Her first novel, Murder In Store, featuring private detective Quint McCauley, appeared two years later in 1989. Four more novels in that series were followed by a contemporary Arthurian thriller, Heartstone. Her short stories have appeared in Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine and several anthologies; two of these stories received Reader’s Choice Awards.
She lives in St. Charles, Illinois with her husband, Donald, and their two cats, Skye and Jura, who are possibly the world’s most aww-inducing felines. (If you don’t believe that, check out her website: www.dcbrod.com.) When she’s not writing, reading, or finding excuses not to clean the house, she enjoys water-color painting, traveling, and watching crows. And, sadly, the Cubs.
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Table of Contents
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
